


Wherever I've Landed

by TheUnamazingTrashKing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Gen, eventual angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnamazingTrashKing/pseuds/TheUnamazingTrashKing
Summary: AU: Jaskier is actually just a guy. He's a band kid from the year 2k-now-ish. He's just a dumb, gay band kid who has landed himself squarely in the world of the Witcher and with no other ideas on how to survive, he has chosen to find the biggest, meanest, scariest looking guy he can and make him his best friend.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	Wherever I've Landed

Julian Alfred Pankratz, was better known as the lead guitarist and composer of the punk band ‘ _Jaskier_ ’ in the twenty-first century Earth. Or, well, probably not. _Jaskier_ had only existed for the past few years and they hadn’t exactly hit it big yet. They were still a big city small bar kind of famous. It wasn’t surprising, four eighteen year old band kids fresh out of highschool weren’t exactly going to be big names yet. No one had even cared enough to get the joke. A punk band named _Jaskier_. Julian and the boys had laughed about it for days. How many people would hear their music, think their name was something awesome, and one day find out it meant _Buttercup_ the whole time. Hysterical! At least, they’d thought so. They dreamed of making it big in Poland where the joke was completely obvious. For now though, they'd settle for making it big in Brighton.

They were sure they’d make it big. Good looking blokes, memorable name, hard work, good music. The only missing ingredient was a bit of luck. Well, there wasn’t anything they could do about that one at all. They’d just have to go to every gig they got and not get a big head. 

They’d had a gig. Nothing to write home about. A dingy bar, hole in the wall kind of place. Well known for starting up exactly nothing. Whatever, pay was pay. Sam had even managed to set it up that they got free drinks. Tim had gotten word out through some “friends” who definitely did not sell anything illegal ever. And Isaac had been all over their facebook page promoting themselves. Julian had even done his part -- the absolutely unthinkable -- and dropped the gig into conversation on a couple of his dates. There were probably more people in that spot than there had been all year. The crowd was a little past buzzing and definitely enjoyed themselves, though it wasn’t clear if they enjoyed the music or their drugs more. Didn’t really matter. They finished their set and hung out for a few hours to take advantage of those free drinks. 

Julian had gotten himself separated from his bandmates. He was drunk and wasn’t sure where they’d headed off to. Probably just the other side of the bar. He couldn’t tell, but he needed some air. He stumbled out into a little back alley. He wasn’t a smoker (messed with vocals) but he had the feeling the mood would’ve been right for one. Dingy alley, loud bar noises muffled by brick, cars passing nearby, puddles on the ground from a rain he hadn’t heard pass. That ugly city romance. The night air was still warm and didn’t help sobering him up at all. Some guy wandered over. Looked a little red in the eyes and very wobbly on his feet. 

“Good night?” Julian asked the man. 

“Looks it,” The man replied. “Any chance you’ve got a few coins on you?” Julian pulled out his wallet. Yes, indeed, there were a few coins in his wallet. He went to hand them over and the man held his hands up to refuse. “Won’t do something for nothing. People don’t like that much.” It started to occur to Julian that this man might be homeless. It was hard to tell sometimes if the untrimmed beard was a hipster’s choice or a poor man’s lack of decision. 

“What’ve you got?” He asked. 

“I can give you this,” He pulled a small resealable bag out of his pocket. Inside was a pill. 

“Ecstasy?” 

“No idea.” 

Julian wondered if he had anything to do the next day. He was pretty sure the answer was no. “Fuck it.” He handed over the coins and took the drug. He swallowed it and went back inside. That was probably unsafe and stupid. Whatever, he'd either live to get a lecture from Isaac and Sam or he wouldn't have to worry about it. 

Julian woke up the next morning in a pile of hay. He sat up slowly, minding his pounding head, but unsurprisingly concerned about the fact that he seemed to be in a barn. Where the fuck was he? He’d never even seen a fucking barn in his life! Last thing he needed was for his first encounter to be after blacking out. The whole place smelt like grass and shit. A cow was standing next to him staring at him with a vacant look. He’d never felt the judgement of a cow before. It was a strangely visceral thing. He'd heard a joke once (or read it online or something) that cows were the silent jury of mankind. There'd been a picture of a cow with the light reflecting off its eye. Turned out they didn't need that to be scary. They were also a lot bigger than he'd thought they were. 

Well, the good news was that when he got home he’d have a hell of a story. He wouldn’t know most of it, but still. Besides, wasn’t it always famous people who always had weird shit happen to them just before they got famous? Maybe this was a good sign. He got up and thanked god that the band’s look was just jeans and t-shirts. The hay brushed off pretty easy from the denim and the shirt hadn’t been nice enough for the clinging cowhair to bother him. 

He stumbled out of the barn, very in need of a glass of water and maybe some aspirin. The farm around him seemed to stretch for quite a while. He couldn’t even see any tar roads. packed dirt that might work as one, sure, but no tar. Jesus, where the fuck was he? Did he somehow manage to grab a plane to Ireland or something? (He’d never actually been to Ireland, just always imagined it was full of sheep, very green grass, and no roads.) He checked his phone. Almost dead. No reception. That seemed right. 

He walked around until he found the house the barn seemed to belong to. The sun followed him, punching the back of his neck the whole way there. Today was going to be absolute shit. He’d expected to wake up in his own house and be able to just sleep last night (along with whatever he'd taken) off. Now he had to figure out where the fuck he even was and how to get home. 

He knocked on the door of the house. It was very... quaint. Very, very quaint. It didn’t even seem to be made out of brick, on closer inspection. In fact, it was wood, and the roof looked like straw. Maybe this wasn’t actually the house. Just as the thought was occuring to him, the door opened. A woman wearing some very strange clothes stood in front of him. She looked like a peasant from a movie; long brown dress, apron, fabric covering her hair. The whole sha-bang. Had he fallen onto a movie set? Well, maybe that would help him get a little famous. 

“Uh, hey,” Julian said, putting on a fake smile and laugh, hoping to seem like the sort of drunk you helped and not the sort you called the cops on, “I woke up in the barn?” 

“‘Nd what were ye doin’ in my barn?” 

“Great question, I don’t know. I don’t remember. Drank a little too much last night, and I don’t really know where I am. Any chance of getting directions back to Brighton?” 

“Brighton? Don’t know Brighton.” 

Julian took a second to process this. “D-Don’t know Brighton?” The woman curled her nose and shook her head. “Huh. That’s… Okay. What about London?” If he had to, he’d just hop on the train and travel the hour back home. 

“Never heard ‘a that either. They ‘round Velen?” 

“Velen?” 

“Don’t know much outside Velen, but I can help ye get to Novigrad.” 

Julian tried to remember the name Novigrad. Sounded vaguely familiar, but wasn’t it in Croatia? “How far are we from Novigrad?” He asked, already knowing he didn’t want the answer. 

“‘Bout a day’s ride.” 

Julian felt his soul leave his body. “Is it a day East or a day West?” 

The woman pointed, but not toward or away from the sun. “Day’s North.” 

He died. He was sure, in that moment, that his very being died. Fuck. _FUCK_. Where the fuck was he? Fucking Italy? Was he in Rome? He was sure this would be funny if he got home, but right now? He was ready to rip his own hair out. 

“You got a 'orse?” 

“A horse? I can’t get a car?” 

“No carts to be found ‘round here, love,” The woman laughed. “You must come from some money to expect one ‘a those.” 

“Not really,” Julian muttered. 

“Plus, you’re dressed real strange. You a bard?” 

The word bard wasn’t exactly one he’d ever taken up for obvious reasons. But right now, he was tired and far from home. Besides, if he _was_ in Italy then it was probably just a translation thing. Although, the woman didn’t sound particularly Italian. “Yes.” 

“Ah, that explains it. What’s ye name?” 

“Jaskier.” 

“Well, Jaskier,” Oh shit. Name not band name. Oh well. That really was the least of his worries right now. “It’ll be a few day’s walk ta Novigrad.” 

It seemed that he’d have to walk until his phone got some reception. There was no way he was walking all the way to Novigrad. He’d just wait until he could call an uber or something. “Thank you. Could I grab some water before I leave?” 

“‘Course dear,” The woman replied, waving him into the room. 

Julian took a seat in the little wooden room. It was very realistic if it was for a movie set. Maybe this is just what Italy is like. She passed him a wooden cup of water. It didn't seem like he'd be asking to charge his phone here. 

“Do ye have a knife or 'a anythin' of the like?” 

“No.” 

She opened a drawer and brought out a small rusted knife and handed it over. “I’ve not got anything bigger for ye. If ye’re to walk the way to Novigrad, ye’ll need this. Drowners and wolves are all over these parts. Alderman says he’s hiring someone for it, not seen any improvement though.” 

“Thank you. He probably doesn’t want to spend the money,” Julian replied, taking the knife from the woman. If there was one thing he knew was universal, people in charge prefered to have money than to spend money. 

“Aye, I think that may be. Us here can’t afford to hire anyone for it though.” 

“You probably don’t want him to hire anyone for you anyway, he’d hire the cheapest option, they’d probably just get hurt.” Suddenly the conversation he was having caught up to him. “Sorry, did you say wolves?” 

“Yes. Stray too far inna the marsh, the drowners are there, stray too deep inna the woods and there’s wolves. Ye’d be best to stick to the paths. They don’t bother the paths too much. Get someone to travel with if ye can too.” 

“Right. Thanks.” He had no idea what the fuck a drowner was. 

“Perhaps ye’d be best to head to the market first. Get yeself some food, water, that sort of thing. Besides, a bard with no lute is like a fish with no gills.” 

_What the fuck is a lute?_ “Yeah, which way is it?” 

“‘Bout an hour’s walk West.” 

Julian sighed to himself. “Awesome. Thank you.” 

“Ye’d be best to wash your face first too. All that smudge on it looks poorly.” 

He wasn’t sure what she meant at first, then remembered the eyeliner he’d been wearing the night before. “Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

He washed his face, thanked the woman again, and left. He started the long walk to the market. He saw a few people. All of them were dressed the same as the woman he’d met, and some were on horse-back. He didn’t really know much about Italy, but he’d always assumed it was a little more… developed than this. Aren’t Ferraris Italian? Obviously he didn’t think all Italian’s had a Ferrari, but where the hell were those meant to be made if the whole place was dirt roads and horse riders. Maybe he was just feeling the after effects of that drug a little too hard. Whatever, not much he could hope to do but get home. 

He reached the town and all the houses looked the same as the one he’d left from, but all closer together. He checked his wallet and found, much to his joy, that his cards and a few notes were still there. They didn’t seem like they’d have any card readers, but at least he still had money. 

He’d never had to travel for multiple days before. What should he even take? Water, he guessed. A sleeping bag. He’d probably need a bag to start with. Food that wouldn’t perish. Jerky, cans, that sort of thing. He’d also need quite a bit of it. 

“Hi,” Julian approached the only stall that seemed to exist in the whole town. That was fair, he supposed, since it looked more like a village. “You wouldn’t happen to have any bags, would you?” 

The stall owner reached under the table and pulled out a large leather bag. It was actually quite nice looking. “This one here’s three crowns.” Crowns? As in the queen’s crown? As in Euros? Easy. He handed over 5 Euros but quickly found them handed back to him. “Said crowns. Don’t know that money.” 

“They’re Euros. The whole Eurozone uses them.” 

“Never heard ‘a any Eurozone.” 

“I thought Italy was in the Eurozone…” 

“What the fuck is Italy?” 

_What. The. Fuck. Is. Italy?_ Okay, so this was a prank. Right? _Right?_ Julian started laughing. “Okay, this has been very funny, but I’m actually hungry as fuck, so, like, I don’t know. Is this being filmed or something? Can we stop now?” 

“What?” 

He sighed. There was probably some trick to getting this whole thing to end. Maybe the boys had set something up to promote _Jaskier_. It seemed like something Isaac would joke about, but Sam and Tim would take too seriously. He spotted a lute on the stall’s table. Yeah, seems like something the boys might have set up. Probably some weird talent-prank show mash up. Sounded lit actually. Prank the talent into thinking they need to play to eat, have them do their thing. Sounds good, anyway. Only problem was, Julian was very hungover. Maybe in the future the show runners should make it less horrid of an experience. They were very good at hiding cameras though. 

“Alright,” He figured his previous outburst would be edited out. “Pass me the lute, and if I play something good, will you let me have the bag.” 

“Old Gherkins’ lute? If ye can play the bloody thing, you can have it. Can’t sell it for shit ‘round here. No one else knows how to play but him, and he’s got sore wrists, bad fingers, old bugger.” 

“Mmm, arthritis, probably,” He muttered, picking up the lute. He’d never played the lute, but how different could it be from a guitar. It took him a few minutes to figure it out, but he did have a knack for instruments. Well, string instruments. Woodwind and brass can burn in hell where they belong. Percussion can stay because it’s necessary but it’s on thin fucking ice. 

He played a quick little piece that wasn’t too difficult. New instrument, no idea how hard he could go yet. The song sounded less punk and more medieval folk. Changed the song completely, but it still sounded good. He wondered if maybe it was actually better. He’d have to play it for the boys, see what they thought of shaking up the song just enough. The idea of a genre occured in that moment: Medieval Punk. Fuck yeah. Probably already existed, but it sounded like it would slap. Couldn’t hurt to explore. 

The shop keeper, as he’d promised, let Julian take the lute. 

It was months later. The realisation that he was just living in this world was setting in properly. He travelled, played the lute, sang, sometimes stole stuff (the other people never seemed to notice), the usual. He had the distinct feeling that he was not a main character in this world. He wasn’t sure how to express it. Everyone was a little more focused on something else. A world of prophecies and magic but none of it seemed to be for him. He didn’t get attacked by monsters (although he’d seen them around). He couldn’t learn magic. He wasn’t a popular musician. He was basically just as well known as any NPC. It was tragic. And he couldn’t get home to his actual band that actually had a chance of being popular. He didn’t even know how he’d gotten here. And he wasn’t exactly smart enough to figure it out. He guessed the drugs had something to do with it, but he had no idea what the fuck he’d taken or where to get more or if more would even say. 

The urge to throw a tantrum like a toddler was… prevalent to say the least. He hadn't yet. At least not publicly. It wouldn't solve anything anyway. He just had to survive this world to the best of his ability. 

He supposed it was a good message for kids. Don’t do random drugs offered to you in back alleys by strangers who also don’t know what the drug is. You might end up waking up in a place that doesn’t have cars or phones and have to wear a doublet. 

He’d resigned himself to figuring out how to play his own songs and the classics on the lute. _Gimme, Gimme, Gimme,_ was his favourite, although the crowds apparently found it strange for a man to sing about getting a man after midnight. They’d have a heart attack if they found out the gay shit he did with men in his own world. Whatever, _ABBA_ wasn’t for homophobes anyway. 

He’d travelled out to a town called Posada and played there for a while. He wasn’t exactly popular, even though he was playing songs he’d written for this world. Which was to say that people were booing and throwing bread at him. 

“Oi, fuck off!” He shouted. “I’m just so glad that I could bring you all together like this.” 

The onslaught of bread stopped as the crowd muttered their displeasure. Well, it was one way to get a meal. Not his favourite, but it worked. He looked up from where he was gathering bread from the floor. 

And there he was. Black clothes, white hair. Oh yeah. Julian may not have been much of a gamer or anything, but he still knew the basics. That was a main character if ever there was one. He was probably the strongest person in this area. Maybe the strongest in the world, depending on his level. It was difficult to tell if this would be a starter town though. All the beasts seemed pretty bad to Jaskier, but they might be easy kills to that guy. 

Well, only one way to find out. 

He approached nicking a cup from a passing bar maid. They really didn’t bother to pay attention to him anymore. That would need to change. If he was going to kick it with the big guns, he’d need to be memorable. Also, likeable. That was easy enough. If there was one thing people seemed to like, it was a pretty idiot and Julian was very good at filling those roles. He leaned against a nearby support beam and got to work, “Love the way you just.. Sit in the corner and brood.” 

“I’m here to drink alone.” 

Not the response he was hoping for. “Good. Yeah. Good.” He needed to find something to get this man talking. Quickly. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except-” He pushed himself into standing straight and made his way closer to the table, “For you.” The man didn’t look overly pleased with the approach, so he paused the original plan of sitting down. “Come on,” He put a playful note in his voice. That was generally what people liked, right? “You don’t want to keep a man with...” Fuck he hadn’t thought this part through, “...bread in his pants waiting.” Well, at least he was filling the idiot part of the likeable character model. 

He sat down quickly, hoping to maybe have that moment be forgotten. “You must have some review for me. Three words or less.” 

The man stared, and Julian finally got a good look at his eyes. Yellow. Very yellow. Oh boy, this was a main character for sure. “They don’t exist.” Three words, bit of wit. That deep gravelly voice. Whatever fandom this would’ve been, Julian could already tell they'd be wild over this guy. Oh yeah, if he could stick by this guy he was certain to get that good, good fame. 

“What don’t exist?” 

“The creatures in your song.” Oh, maybe he was a low level. After all, the creatures he’d started singing about all existed. Allegedly. From what he’d heard… Maybe he was a high level. 

“And how would you know?” The man didn’t answer. He just stared. One of the stories he’d heard occurred to him. “Oh, fun.” A story some old guy had told him while he was wandering around near a place called Blaviken. He sat forward at the table, eyes wandering over the man as he spoke, “White hair… big, old loner, two very… very scary looking swords.” 

The man was getting up, taking his money from the table. “I know who you are,” Julian continued. It didn’t bring the man the pause he’d hoped for. He picked up his swords and started walking away. Last chance to make something happen. He got up and followed him, “You’re the Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.” The room went quiet, but the man still didn’t stop. “Called it!” Julian shouted, hoping with one last desperate attempt that the man might take him with him. 

It didn’t work that way exactly, but one of the other patrons of the bar had heard. He could hear the two of them speaking by the door. Something about a devil. He’d heard a story about that, actually. Something had been stealing the grain, which seemed odd because people were still more than happy to throw bread at him. Maybe they did like him. 

The Witcher left and Julian still had to put away his lute. Thankfully, he managed to catch up to him before he rode off with his horse. His breath was panting out of his chest as he called, “Need a hand? I’ve got two. One for each of the, uh, devil’s horns.” Is that what the devil looked like in this world? 

“Go away.” 

Not the best response, but still workable. “I won’t be but silent back-up.” The Witcher ignored him. He looked away as if not looking at him hard enough might make him not exist. “Look, I heard your note, and, yes, you’re right.” People loved to hear that. “And maybe real adventures would make better stories and you, sir, smell chock- _full_ of them.” He still wasn’t getting a response. To be fair, he was speaking sort of quickly, but he couldn’t even tell if Geralt was listening to him. “Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion?” That was rude, people don’t like that. “It doesn’t matter, Whatever it is, you smell of death. And destiny. Heroics and... heartbreak.” 

“It’s onion.” 

Julian nodded. “Right, yeah.” At least he had proof Geralt was listening to him. “Yep…” He supposed now he just had to think of something he could actually do. Apparently, just helping out wasn’t considered good enough to hang out with Mr Main Character. “Ooh! I can be your barker! Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia! The-” What was that thing they called him? Oh yes, “-The Butcher of Blaviken!” 

Geralt finally stopped. Thank god. He looked at his horse, not exactly what Julian had been aiming for. Thankfully, that only lasted a second before the man turned around. “Come here,” He gruffed, waving his hand for Julian to approach. 

“Yeah?” Julian asked, stepping forward and doubling over immediately. The bastard had punched him in the stomach. He stumbled to try and regain his balance and hit the ground. Maybe the pain made him delirious, but he found himself laughing and thinking to himself _that wasn’t a level one hit_. 

He heard the Witcher say, “Come on, Roach,” and it was clear that he was leaving again. He forced himself back up and caught up with Geralt. 

Julian waited a little while before speaking to Geralt again. He didn't want to annoy the Witcher too much. While the circumstances weren't ideal, he did quite like being alive. At the least, Geralt was riding at a slow pace that could be easily followed. It seemed somewhat like a good sign that he'd hopped up on the horse but was moving at a slow enough pace for Julian to come with him. Finally though, his chattery tongue and need for attention got the better of him 

“Reading between the lines and the gut punches, chum, I’d say you have got a bit of a…” He stared at the man while readjusting the lute on his shoulder. What was a good way to summarize that everyone seemed to dislike him very quickly, likely due to his shitty reputation and shittier attitude? “An image problem.” That seemed fitting. “Were I to join you on this,” He waved out toward the grass surrounding them, “feat to defeat the devil of Posada, I could relieve you of that title.” Geralt still didn’t seem super receptive to the idea despite the fact that the offer should’ve been perfect for him. Julian desperately hoped he wasn’t following around a villian. But, usually, in stories of monsters, the monster hunters were the good guys. “All the North would be too busy singing the tales of…” He tried to give himself a second, “Geralt of Rivia the-” It hadn’t been a long enough second, “The-” He needed a title. Now. “The White Wolf or-or something.” That was actually quite good. He would need to remember that one for later. 

At least Geralt looked at him. “Butcher is right.” Hard to work with, but maybe a good response. Lots of main characters were the emotionally damaged assholes who needed a ray of sunshine to come in and fix it, right? Julian could do that. All he had to do was pester this guy just right. It had to be about the right things, otherwise there wouldn’t be any character development, and that was necessary for him to open up. And him opening up was necessary to Julian being more than just an annoying side character. Or worse: forgettable one. 

“Mind if I hope up there with you?” He asked, hoping to give the Witcher an opportunity to show his kinder colours, “It’s just that I’m not really wearing the right kind of footwear.” 

“Don’t touch Roach.” 

“Right, yeah, right.” Okay, it was going to be harder than that. There was barely a pause after that before Geralt came to a stop and dismounted, tying Roach’s reins to a nearby sapling in the vast grassy expanse. 

“I hear the elves called this Dol Blathanna before bequeathing it to the humans and retreating into their golden palaces in the mountains,” Julian said, although Geralt’s lack of response made it feel more like he was saying it to himself. The Witcher started walking off without him. “There I go again, just… delivering exposition.” It was difficult to feel as if that weren’t what he was doing. Still the Witcher kept walking. “Geralt?” Ignored. He tried calling a little louder, “Geralt? Wh-Where are you going?” Maybe he was getting desperate but he called, “Geralt don’t leave me.” Still no response. This Witcher was proving to be a bit of an asshole. “Hello? What are we looking for again?” 

“Blessed silence.” _Finally._ A response. Not a nice one but still. 

Julian figured he should be quiet. They were hunting something after all. Then again, there was a question pressing on the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, I don’t really go in for that. Have you, uh, have you ever hunted a devil before, Geralt?” 

“Devils don’t exist.” So exceptionally to the point. Also vague as shit though. 

“Right. Obviously. Then, uh… Then what are we doing?” 

“Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both. That’s the life.” _Wow,_ Jaskier thought to himself, _That may be the most he’s said so far._

Julian thought he saw something moving about in the grain and tried to see if he could catch it again. Geralt was looking off somewhere else, so maybe he could spot it first, prove himself useful. There was a whistling to his left and he heard something make contact. Then Geralt ducked and growled, “Shit!” 

“Act Two Begins!” Julian shouted before he could stop himself, throwing his hands in the air. If it were bandits, or wolves, or monsters, surely it would be more interesting than whatever had been happening. As he’d guessed, this was the main character he’d been looking for. “What was that? Like a -” He stopped himself from saying anything about slingshots. In the months he’d been here, apparently no one had figured out the simple beauty of some elastic and sticks. “A tiny cannonball from a-” And there it was. “Oh my gosh.” The thing he’d almost spotted. Horns and goat head peeking through leaves at the height of a person. Julian wasn’t religious, but everyone knew that Satan was either just some really hot guy or a goat man with a pitchfork (Sometimes both). It would stand to reason his devils would be the same, and though missing a pitchfork, this was hitting the goat mark squarely in the chest. “Geralt… It is a devil.” 

Julian probably should have been scared. In fact, his legs and voice seemed to shake, but he couldn’t help approaching. “Ohhh, I have to see this magical, this mythical-” Something hit his head. 

Julian woke up to find himself tied to Geralt. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there but Geralt still wasn’t conscious. That was… less than comforting. They were alone, back to back, in what looked like a cave. They weren’t in very deep. There was a lot of light and vines crawling on the walls. He felt Geralt shift and knew he was finally conscious. He started up a bunch of grunting and wriggling as he tried to free himself from the ropes that bound them. 

Julian, pretty unconvinced that this would be his end while beside a guy with such big main character energy, teasingly pointed out, “This is the part where we escape.” 

Geralt, perhaps less convinced of their certain success, was quick to growl back, “This is the part where they kill us.” 

“Who’s they?” Hopefully that would give him an idea of how strong of an enemy they were actually up against. He was very hopeful to see some demon or another. They would probably make some pretty good music out of them. He already had some lyrics in mind for that devil he’d seen before, and now the idea of seeing more was sort of exciting. Besides, who didn’t love a good creature design? 

He didn’t get the answer exactly as he’d been hoping. A foot made contact with his face. A very hard foot that caused a lot of pain, which sucked a lot. Even if this was some sort of game or something, the pain was apparently real. Geralt, rather unhelpfully at this point, growled, “Elves,” as if Julian couldn't tell that for himself. The Elf who had kicked him sneered something out in a language he’d sort of started learning. He’d heard about the Elves and all the shit they’d been through and had been curious enough in their history to at least try to learn a bit of Elder Speech. (Which seemed, to him, to be a terribly lazy name for a language.) 

He didn’t really have time to think about it as one of the other bastards was messing with their stuff. “Oi, that’s my lute!” He really didn’t want to lose that, it was the only way he currently had to make money and couldn’t afford another one right now. “Give that back! Quick, Geralt! Do your-your witchering-” 

“Shut up!” Geralt interrupted, leaving him to watch as the elven bastard fiddled with his only source of income. 

“No,” The elven girl replied and kicked Geralt. Julian couldn’t see the actual impact, but heard Geralt’s grunt of pain. Or perhaps frustration. Likely both. She shouted in Elder Speech. 

“Oh, my Elder Speech is rough, I only got part of that.” 

“Humans, shut up,” She clarified. 

He knew enough Elder Speech to reply, “Ah, got it, thanks so much.” 

“Do you want to die right now?” She sounded annoyed. She stood over them and Julian couldn’t help thinking that she was likely trying to intimidate them. Or worse, that she felt she should be intimidating them and was angry that she didn’t. He’d once run into a thirteen year old kid who gave off the same vibes. He’d been trying to scare Julian and Isaac away from a skatepark and started practically bawling when Julian started laughing at him. Maybe because the kid was thirteen, but he still wasn’t sure how he hadn’t realised that two young guys who didn’t skate were probably at a skatepark to buy weed (or in that particular case, ecstasy). 

“As opposed to later?” Geralt asked, still grumbling and growling away. 

The sound of the lute being damaged hit Julian’s ears and he shouted, “No, please, not the lute-!” getting cut off by the foot landing in his stomach. 

“Leave off!” Geralt, his hero, shouted. More quietly, he added, “He’s just a bard.” 

The elven girl, in her fit of rage, hit Geralt again, shouting, “You don’t deserve the air you breathe!” as if she weren’t beating a bound and seemingly helpless man. She hit him again, punctuated by the sound of that asshole destroying Julian’s lute. “Everything you touch you destroy!” _Smack. Twang._ Julian wasn’t sure how much more of this he was going to be able to endure before his certainty of their survival dwindled. 

It wasn’t fair. “You hide in your golden palaces. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” He could feel something feral in his chest, pouring out through his words. It was that particular something that often led people into the world of playing punk. He hadn’t had the chance to feel it in a while now, not really. It felt rather good to let it out again. 

“Do you like my palace? Hmm?” She circled back to Geralt. “Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?” There was a satisfying smack before the elf fell back with blood on her nose. 

Julian threw his head back and laughed at the sight. “Yeah, take that, pointy!” 

But the elf didn’t stop coughing. Her breath was wheezing, that sort of chesty wheeze from overworked lungs and suddenly it wasn’t as funny anymore. “Wait, what’s - what’s wrong with her?” 

“She’s sick,” Hissed the elf who entered at that moment. Tall, blonde, coming in at a crucial moment. Perhaps the leader of all these elves. Especially since he was being followed by that little devil from the field. 

That made three elves total, and if one was a leader that made their chances of getting out much worse. “Oh, and who’s this?” Julian sighed as the two knelt down to tend to the coughing elf. 

“He’s Filavandrel,” The goat thing said, since it apparently could speak, “King of the Elves.” Oh fuck. 

“Not a king.” Oh thank god. “Not by choice.” Shit. 

“You were stealing for them,” Geralt pondered aloud. The creepy little goat beast turned to face him. 

“I felt for them,” It explained in it’s unsettlingly human voice, “They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.” 

“Forced out?” Julian recalled all the stories he’d heard, which strongly suggested otherwise. “No, they chose--” 

He didn’t get any further than that as Filavandrel interrupted him. “Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home? To Starve?” As far as Julian had been told, the elves weren’t starving. They were living in the lap of luxury. “To have a Sylvan steal for them?” Well, at least he had a name for that creepy goat thing. 

He wondered if this was a case of all the humans are pricks who are making shit up about elves. Or, were the elves lying about how bad their circumstances were? Was it maybe some mix of the two? Even if they weren’t lying, why the fuck had they bound Geralt and Juilian in their cave. There was probably some other solution to this. 

“Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt,” The Sylvan said to the elf, who apparently had a name. 

She snarled, making a disgusted noise in the back of her throat before spitting, “What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?” 

“ _One_ human,” Geralt objected. “And you can let him go.” Well, there was that streak of heroism that Julian had been looking for. Still, Julian’s breath shook as it came out of his mouth. He couldn’t tell if it was anger, fear, or just the kick to his stomach making his breathing uneasy, but he knew he was shaking. 

“Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing,” Filavandrel replied, standing to address them. He approached as he explained, “The humans will attack. Many will die… on both sides.” 

“The lesser evil.” Geralt said this with a weight that suggested it meant something to him, although it meant little to Julian and (he imagined) little to the elves. “No matter what you choose, you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.” Julian had to admit that it seemed like solid advice. Perhaps this Witcher was a bit of a philosopher. He hadn’t met any philosophers yet and wondered if they existed. 

“That’s the problem,” Filavandrel replied dramatically, “I can’t.” Julian himself had been accused of being dramatic before, but it seemed to him the elves were on a completely different level. “This is necessary.” 

“I understand,” Geralt replied, apparently choosing to match Filavandrel’s level of drama, “As long as you understand that it won’t be long before you follow me in death.” The edginess of it all almost had Julian cringing. Part of him knew he shouldn’t since he didn’t know what would happen if he died here, but god it was ridiculous to hear. 

“Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil. Even chaos is polluted.” Here, he found his heartstrings pulled a little. To have your home taken, to be starving, and even the thing you rely on to be stripped from you. “Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.” What more could be said for it all then Big Yikes. 

“Chaos is the same as it’s always been.” Geralt’s voice was less of a growl now, he’d likely calmed down through the exercise of pure drama nerd bullshit. “Humans just adapted better.” 

“You say adapt, I say destroy.” Did elves have a naturally higher need for drama or was it just Filavandrel? 

“You are choosing to starve.” That… didn’t seem PC. Honestly, if everything they said was true, then it turned out elves weren’t up in their golden palaces, but were instead members of a severely oppressed class. That made him feel a little bad about calling one of them “pointy” earlier. He considered mentioning this but he was sort of over trying to argue with everyone here. He’d only meant to tag along for the ride and now he was tied up. Probably best to just let Geralt do whatever Geralt did and hope it got them out of this situation. “You’re cutting off your ear to spite your face.” 

“You think this is about pride?” Filavandrel sounded thoroughly pissed with Geralt’s most recent hot take. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of all they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered.” That moment of calling that elf “pointy” was quickly looking worse and worse. “ _The Great Cleansing_ , humans call it. I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved.” _Oof._ That certainly brought a pause to Geralt’s insistence that they were actively starving themselves. “And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow, our babies fertilizer for their grain. I don’t wish to bury anyone else.” Tears stung at Julian’s eyes and he was glad that he at least didn’t have to look at the elf while he said this. He might actually lose it. The way the elf’s voice became breathy with the effort not to let it crack was like rolling in glass. “I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers. Now I’m Filavandrel of the Edge of the World.” 

Julian expected that would be the end, but apparently the elven drama nerd was a little too strong for that. “If I bring my people down from these mountains, it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us. Pariahs of half-blood children.” 

“Then go somewhere else,” Geralt said when he finally started to speak again. “Rebuild. Get strong again.” It probably wasn’t a bad idea actually. Maybe he really was smarter than a standard rough and tumble big guy. “Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.” That sentence brought up a whole lot of questions for Julian, who thought that elves were only considered a problem because they hoarded gold and stuff, which was evidently untrue. 

“Like you, Witcher?” Oop, that was a good point. Geralt seemed to lean pretty heavily into the idea that he was an asshole. He wasn’t exactly proving himself to be more than that. In fact when Julian had offered to do exactly that he’d been completely shut down. 

“I have learned to live with them so that I may live.” The words hung in the air for a moment and Julian could swear he felt them sinking into his skin. 

The elf girl stood from where she had fallen, looking cleaner and breathing easier, as she begged, “Please, my King. There are others. A new generation. Evellien who wish to fight! Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now.” It seemed that the elven drama nerd gene was not Filavandrel exclusive after all. 

Julian heard a blade being removed from a sheath, and the Sylvan shout, “Wait!” 

“Torque, stand aside!” 

“The Witcher could’ve killed me but he didn’t.” Julian had missed that part. He guessed it was likely in the time he spent unconscious. “He’s different. Like us.” 

“If you must kill me… I am ready.” _Yikes_ there was such a thing as too much edgy theatre kid shenanigans. “But the Sylvan's right. Don’t call me human.” 

Julian waited for a solid few minutes of what he imagined must have been some pretty intense staring between the two while he had only a wall to look at. He was sort of annoyed with how this was ending. He’d specifically followed Geralt because he looked like a rough and tough, beat ‘em down kind of guy. Instead, the second someone tied him up and threatened to kill him, he started some edgy bullshit about being ready for death. If Geralt was ready to die or not, Julian felt he was at least entitled to being saved. Had he really done that poorly at filling the loveable idiot role that now he was to be slaughtered on his first adventure by some fucking _elves_? What kind of fantasy land had oppressed, asshole, murder elves anyway? 

Then, by some absolute bullshittery in Julian’s opinion, Filavandrel let them go and even gave Julian his lute to replace the one broken. It wasn’t bullshittery in the sense that he was mad about it, just that he felt if he’d written something like that, someone would have told him it was unrealistic. Perhaps Geralt really was the unkillable main character he’d been looking for, because that mess surely wouldn’t have worked for anyone else. 

“Credit where credit is due,” He said to the Witcher who had hoped back onto his horse, “That whole reverse-psychology thing you did on them was brilliant, by the way.” He dropped his voice as close to Geralt’s as he could get to repeat, “Kill me, I’m ready.” Geralt shot him a look and he wondered if it was the imitation or the word reverse-psychology that made him look so confused and annoyed. He waited for a response that would answer that question, but (at this point, unsurprisingly) didn’t receive one. “That’s the conclusion. They just let us go, and you give all of Nettly’s coin to the elves?” 

“Filavandrel’s lute not gift enough for you?” 

Ah! A response. Perhaps he had to be a whiny brat of a loveable idiot just to get this man to interact with him. He wasn’t sure he could really keep that up though. He grabbed the lute that had been slung over his back and couldn’t help a grin. “Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn’t she?” It was true, she was certainly an upgrade from that lute he’d had. The wood was lighter, but darker in colour, and it was beautifully designed and decorated. A mastercraft of an instrument, for sure. “I do have respect for Filavandrel. He survived the Great Cleansing once. Who knows? Maybe he can do it again. Be reborn.” 

The lyrics started to pour from him without much thought to write them down. His experience with first drafts was that you just sing something and you’ll hopefully remember the bits that work. “ _Will the elf king heed  
What the Witcher entreets  
Is history a wheel  
Doomed to repeat?_” 

He gave the words just a second to stay on his tongue. “Nah that’s… that’s shit.” 

“This is where we part ways, bard. For good.” Oh shit, had it been the singing that set him off? Julian hoped not because that wasn’t going to stop. 

“Look, I promised to change the public’s tune about you. At least allow me to try.” He brought the lute to his front so he could actually play it. 

“ _When a humble bard  
Graced a ride along  
With Geralt of Rivia  
Along came this… song  
From when the White Wolf fought  
A silver-tongued devil  
His army of elves  
At his hooves did they travel  
They came after me  
With masterful deceit  
Broke down my lute  
And they kicked in my teeth  
While the devil’s horns  
minced our tender meat  
And so cried the Witcher  
He can’t be bleat--_” 

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt interrupted. Apparently the army elves and silver-tongued devil bits didn’t bother him, but accusing him of a pun was the last straw. Still Julian paused his song to listen to the Witcher’s complaints. “Where’s your newfound respect?” 

Julian smiled at this. Maybe he really could just get away with being a brat to get this man’s attention. How useful to know. He wondered if he should bother to explain the intricacies of how storytelling worked, especially lyrically. How it was better taken with a simple plot if there was one. How the bad guys had to stay bad because there wasn’t the room for growth. Instead he summarised, “Respect doesn’t make history.” He continued walking and playing. 

“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher  
O Valley of Plenty  
O Valley of Plenty, oh-oh-oh  
Toss a coin to your Witcher  
O Valley of Plenty._” He really held that last note. He had to admit, that was a pretty catchy tune. Might end up being a real earworm.

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody ask me how long I've been working on this. Nobody ask when the next chapter will update. We will get there when we get there. This might end up being a slash fic later, we'll have to see what happens with that extra chapter...


End file.
